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Black  'Ell— a  War 

Play  in  One  A  ct  by  Miles 
Malleson. 


FRANK  SHAY,  Publisher 
NEW  YORK 

1917 


BLACK  'ELL 


PLAYS  OF  THE 
WASHINGTON   SQUARE    PLAYERS 


TRIFLES        .        .        by  Susan  Glaspell 

In  the  chatter  of  two  women  about  seemingly  in- 
significant things  it  unfolds  to  the  imagination 
the  whole  story  of  a  domestic  tragedy.  While 
two  officers  of  the  law  rummage  through  a  cheer- 
less farmhouse  for  evidence  to  convict  a  wife 
suspected  of  murdering  her  husband,  the  two 
horror-stricken  women  in  the  kitchen  intuitively 
divine  the  pitiful  circumstances  which  have  goan- 
ed  an  abused  and  neglected  wife  to  the  commis- 
sion of  the  crime 35 

"One  would  go  far  to  find  such  a  play  as  'Trifles.'  " 
— Heywood  Broun. 

ANOTHER 

WAY    OUT      .      by  La'wrence  Langner 

A  clever  and  rather  interesting  satire  on  the  new 
freedom,  as  it  is  being  manifested  in  love  and 
art.  The  dialogue  is  of  the  sort  that  plays  well 
in  any  hands.    Paper  covers 35 

THE,  LAST 

STRAW  .  by  Bosworth  Crocker 

An  honest,  hard-working  victim  of  circumstances 
has  been  charged  with  killing  a  cat  caught  in  a 
dumbwaiter,  and  convicted  in  a  police  court.  He 
"broods"  over  his  disgrace  and  the  taunts  of  his 
neighbors;  even  his  two  little  sons  have  been 
humiliated  at  school.  The  wife  tries  to  console 
him,  but  only  brings  the  matter  to  a  tragic  con- 
clusion.   Paper  covers 35 

"Mr.  Crocker  has  brought  realism  from  the  depths, 

as  it  were,  in  giving  us  a  truly  human  little  play. 

He  has  a  rare  gift  of  touching  on  life  in  its  simplest 

form." — Charles  Darnton. 

LOVE  OF  ONE'S 

NEIGHBOR       .       by  Leonid  Andreyev 

A  crowd  has  gathered  to  watch  a  man  hanging 
on  a  ledge  of  rock.  Their  speculations  as  to  how 
he  got  to  his  unfortunate  position,  what  his  feel- 
ings were,  and  how  soon  he  would  fall  display 
the  types  of  tourists  and  the  stupidity  of  the 
police Boards,  .50.     Paper,  .35 


BLACK  'ELL 

A   War  Play  in  One  Act 
By  Miles  Malleson 


New  York:  FRANK  SHAY 
Seventeen    West  Eighth  Street 


BLACK  'ELL 

was  first  produced  at  the  Neighborhood 
Playhouse,  New  York,  on  the  evening  of 
April  2nd,  1917,  with  the  following  cast: 

Mrs.  Gould Hannah  Tr^nz 

Mr.  Gould Bennet  S.  Tobias 

Ethel Frances  Goodman 

Colonel  Fane J.  F.  Roach 

Jean Rose  Beatrice  Schiff 

Margery  Willis .' Bella  Nodell 

Harold  Gould William  A.  Rothschild 

Scene:   The  morning  room  of  the  Gould's  home;  breakfast  time. 


Copyright  1917,  By  Frank  Shay 
First  published  October  1917 


The  professional  and  amateur   stage   rights  on  this  play  are  reserved 

by  the  author.      Application  to  produce  this  play  should  be  made  to 

CURTIS  BROWN.  110  WEST  40th  STREET.  NEW  YORK 


BLACK   'ELL 


M  BOUT  nine  o'clock  on  an  August  morning  in  1916,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
ZJ  Gould  are  having  breakfast.  They  have  been  happily  married 
•^  "■■  some  twenty-five  years.  Their  income  is  about  a  thousand  a  year, 
and  there  is  nothing  to  differentiate  their  dining-room — or  their  whole 
house,  for  that  matter — from  other  dining-rooms  and  houses  of  the 
same  class. 

Mr.  Gould  is  reading  a  daily  paper  propped  up  against  something 
on  the  table.  Presently  he  drains  his  large  coffee-cup  and  pushes  it 
across  to  his  wife.  She  re-fills  it,  carries  it  ro'Und  to  him,  and  returns 
to  her  place.  The  breakfast  continues.  He  finishes  the  bacon  and  eggs 
on  his  plate.  She  has  been  watching,  and  asks  him  if  he  will  have  any 
more.  She  does  that  by  a  little  noise — a  little  upward  inflection  of  in- 
quiry and  affection.  {The  affection  is  unconscious  and  unobtrusive — 
the  result  of  twenty-five  years  and  about  nine  thousand  breakfasts 
together.) 

The  little  noise  (patches  his  attention  from  his  paper.  He  eyes  his 
own  empty  plate;  he  eyes  the  inviting  egg  on  the  dish  in  front  of  her, 
and  grunts.  A  little  downward  inflection  of  assent.  He  gets  his  second 
helping  and  the  breakfast  continues  in  silence. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  crashing  into  the  silence,  a  loud  double  knock 
at  the  front  door,  followed  by  a  violent  ringing.  It  is  as  if  they  had 
both  been  hit  unexpectedly. 

Mrs.  Gould.    A  telegram  ! 
"^  Mr.  Gould.    Sounds  like  it. 

{Their  eyes  meet  in  anxiety.    She  rises  in  the  grip  of  fear.] 

Mrs.  Gould.  Oh,  Fred,  d'you  think  it's — can  it  be  that,  at  last? 
Have  you  looked — the  casualty  page? 

Mr.  Gould.  Yes,  yes,  of  course  I've  looked.  I  always  look  first 
thing — you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 

Mrs.  Gould.  It  wouldn't  be  there — not  till  to-morrow.  They  al- 
ways send  from  the  War  Office  first — by  telegram. 

Mr.  Gould.  [Trying  to  quiet  her  in  a  voice  that  trembles  with 
anxiety.]  Now,  mother,  mother,  we  go  all  through  this  every  time  a 
simple  telegram  comes  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  Gould.  [Back  in  her  seat,  too  frightened  to  do  anything  but 
just  sit  there  and  wait.]     It's  about  him,  I  feel — I  know  it's  about  him. 

Mr.  Gould.    Don't  be  silly.     [He  goes  up  to  the  window.]    There's 


'^^'^GOS 


6  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

the  boy — it's  a  telp.gr am  all  right.  Why  doesn't  Ethel  answer  the  door? 
Ob,  t.he?-c,  s'le's  taken  it  :v:  [He.  comes  away  from  the  window.  Again 
their  eyes  meet.]  Now,  mother,  there's  no  need  to  be  anxious — not 
the  slightest  reason  to  get  frightened — not  the  shghtest.  [With  a  poor 
attempt  at  a  laugh  to  fill  in  the  wait.]  What  a  fuss  about  a  telegram ! 
[The  wait  lengthens.]  Where  is  Ethel?  I  wish  the  devil  people  would 
use  the  telephone. 

[And  even  as  he  eyes  it  reproachfully,  the  thing  rings.  It  startles 
them  both.] 

Mr.  Gould.     [Ungratefully.]     Damn  it!     [Attending  to  it.]     Yes? 
Hullo!    What's  the  matter?    What  is  it? 
Ethel,  the  maid,  enters. 

Ethel.    A  telegram,  sir. 

[Mr.  Gould  doesn't  want  his  wife  to  open  it,  hut  he  is  attached  to 
the  telephone.] 

Mr.  Gould.  [Holding  out  his  spare  hand  for  it.]  Here,  give  it  to 
me.  [Ethel  giz'es  it  to  him  and  stands  waiting.  He  continues  into 
the  telephone.]     Yes?    I  can't  hear.    Who  are  you? 

Mrs.  Gould.  [Tortured  by  the  delay.]  Oh,  Fred.  Please— finish 
talking — and  open  it. 

Mr.  Gould.  Don't  be  silly,  dear.  [Then  hastily  to  the  telephone.] 
No,  no,  nothing.  No.  I  wasn't  talking  to  you.  Oh — yes — very  well, 
come  round.  [He  rings  off.]  It's  that  WiUis  girl.  I  never  can  hear 
a  word  she  says — she  seemed  very  excited  about  something — said  she 
wanted  to  come  round. 

Mrs.  Gould.  It  may  be  about  him.  Some  news  in  the  papers  we 
haven't  seen.    Please — please — tell  me  what's  in  it. 

Mr.  Gould.  Nothing  to  do  with  the  boy  at  all,  you  bet  your  hfe — 
somebody  wants  to  meet  me  at  the  club. 

[His  hands  are  trembling  and  he  is  having  some  difficulty  in  open- 
ing it.     It  comes  out  upside  down.     At  last  he  gets  it  right 
and    looks    at    it;    but  his  eyes  aren't  so  good  as  he  always 
thinks  they  are.] 
Where  are  my  spectacles? 

Mrs.  Gould.    Oh,  Fred ! 

Mr.  Gould.  Mother,  don't  be  silly.  Ethel,  where  are  my  spec- 
tacles?   I  had  'em — 

[He  gropes  on  the  table.  It  is  Ethel  that  finds  them.  Adjusting 
them,  he  reads  the  message  and  hands  the  telegram  to  his 
wife.] 

Mrs.  Gould,    Oh,  my  dear — father — my  dear — 
[The  tears  in  her  voice  overwhelm  her  words.] 
Mr.  Gould.    There,  there,  there — mother — now  quiet. 
Mrs.  Gould.    Yes. 

[Ethel  has  not  left  the  room;  she  is  standing  awkwardly,  but 
unable  to  go,  by  the  door.] 


BLACK      ELL  7 

Mr.  Gould,  Ethel,  Master  Harold  is  in  England  again — it's  from 
him — he's  home  on  leave — he'll  be  back  with  us  this  morning.  That's 
all. 

Ethel.    Yessir.    Thank  you. 

[She  goes  out.     Mr.  Gould  looks  at  his  wife.     When  he  is  quite 
sure  that  she  is  too   occupied  with  her  handkerchief  to  notice 
him,  he  pulls  out  his  own;  and  walking  to  the  window,  does 
his  best  to  efface  any  signs  of  weakness.] 

Mrs.  Gould.  It's  two  hundred  and  forty-three  days  since  he  left 
here,  and  ever  since  then,  every  hour  almost,  he's  been  in  danger — and 
now — he'll  be  standing  in  this  room  again.  We  must  telephone  to  Jean 
— she'll  come  round. 

Mr.  Gould.  Don't  we — don't  you — want  the  boy  to  yourself  for 
a  bit? 

Mrs.  Gould.  He  must  find  everything  he  wants  when  he  comes 
home — and  he'll  want  her.  Father,  if  he's  home  long  enough  perhaps 
they  can  get  married.  I  had  a  talk  to  her  the  other  day.  Dear,  dear 
Jean — what  this'll  mean  to  her.  She  must  be  here  when  he  comes. 
[She  has  risen  to  go  to  the  telephone  and  notices  the  breakfast  table.] 
Dear,  aren't  you  going  to  finish  your  breakfast? 

Mr.  Gould.  No.  The  young  rascal's  spoilt  my  appetite.  Does  he 
say  what  time  he's  coming? 

Mrs.  Gould.  It  says  this  morning — that's  all.  [She  is  at  the  tele- 
phone.] Number  2147  Museum,  please.  Yes,  please.  Father,  will  you 
send  Ethel  to  me?  [Mr.  Gould  goes  out.]  Is  that  you,  Bailey?  It's 
Mrs.  Gould.  Would  you  ask  Miss  Jean  to  come  round  here  at  once? 
She  started?  Oh!  Something  to  tell  us?  Well,  I  suppose  she's  heard 
Master  Harold's  coming  home — she  hasn't?  Then  what  is  she  coming 
to  tell  us?  You  don't  know — yes — well,  she  ought  to  be  here  now  if 
she's  been  gone  ten  minutes — yes.  Good-bye,  Bailey.  [She  rings  off. 
Ethel  is  in  the  room.]  I  wonder  what — Margery  Willis  was  excited, 
too,  father  said;  and  she's  coming  round.  Ethel,  what"s  the  telegram 
say  exactly?     It's  on  the  table. 

Ethel.  [Reading.]  "With  you  this  morning,  Harold."  That's 
all,  Mrs.  Gould. 

Mrs.  Gould.  Yes.  [She  puzzles  over  it  for  a  moment — then.]  His 
room  must  be  put  ready,  Ethel. 

Ethel.    Yes'm,  of  course. 

Mrs.  Gould.     I'd  better  come  and  see  about  it  myself. 

Ethel.    We  can  do  everything  quite  well. 

Mrs.  Gould.  I'd  hke  to  do  it  myself.  It  seems  the  same  as  when 
he  used  to  come  back  from  school  for  the  holidays — getting  his  room 
ready — it  seems  only  the  other  day.  I  can  remember  the  first  time  he 
ever  came  back  from  a  boarding-school — quite  distinctly  I  can  remem- 
ber— he  came  in  at  that  door  and  ran  across  the  room  with  his  arms 
open — to  me  there — and  jumped  right  into  my  arms — and  now,  the 
things  he  must  have  been  through — and  he'll  be  standing  in  this  room 


8  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

again.     [A  loud  ring  at  the  bell.]     Oh,  there,  that's  Miss  Jean — she's 
got  something  to  tell  me.    Let  her  in  quick. 

[Ethel,  on  her  way  to  the  door,  glances  out  of  the  window  and 
stops  short.] 

Ethel.    It  isn't  Miss  Jean'm    I  thought  it  wasn't  her  ring. 

Mrs.  Gould.    Not  Miss  Jean — who  is  it? 

Ethel.    It's  a  soldier'm. 

Mrs.  Gould.     Not — not  Master  Harold? 

Ethel.     Oh,  no'm.     Not  him. 

Mrs.  Gould.    Let  him  in,  Ethel — and  tell  your  master. 

[Ethel  goes  out  and  comes  in  again,  showing  in  Colonel  Fane, 
a  staff  officer  at  about  forty,  looking  very  military  and  awe- 
inspiring  in  his  smart  khaki  much  adorned  with  red.  He  is 
Mrs.  Gould's  brother.] 

Mrs.  Gould.    Eric! 

Colonel  Fane.    Well,  have  you  heard? 
Mrs.  Gould.    We've  just  this  minute  had  the  wire. 
Colonel.    You've  had  a  wire? 
Mrs.  Gould.    Yes. 
Colonel.    Who  from? 

Mrs.  Gould.    Why  from  him — from  Harold. 
Colonel.    Where  from? 

Mrs.  Gould.    From  where  he  landed — at  least  I  suppose  so. 
Colonel.    Let's  have  a  look.     [She  gives  him  the  telegram.]  That 
is  all  you've  heard? 

Mrs.  Gould.    All? 

Colonel.    You  haven't  heard  anything  more? 

Mrs.  Gould.    More?    Eric,  there's  nothing — he's  not  hurt? 

Colonel.    No — he's  not  hurt. 

Mrs.  Gould.    Then  what  more?    What  is  it,  Eric,  what  is  it? 

Colonel.    Nothing  but  good  news — great  news. 
Mr.  Gould  comes  in. 

Mr.  Gould.  Hullo,  Eric!  Come  round  to  tell  us  the  news,  eh? 
You're  too  late,  my  boy.    We're  before  you — just  had  a  wire. 

Colonel.    I  was  just  telling  May  there  isn't  everything  in  that  wire. 

Mr.  Gould.  [Collapsing.]  Good  God!  There's  nothing  the  mat- 
ter— he's  not — 

Mrs.  Gould.    Now  don't  be  silly,  father ! 

Colonel.  It's  good  news  for  you — great  news.  You  ought  to  be 
the  happiest  and  the  proudest  people  in  England  to-day.  Harold's 
coming  back  to  you — and  he's  coming  back  a  hero — recommended  for 
gallantry' — it's  a  D.  S.  O. 


BLACK      ELL  V 

[Mrs.  Gould  jttst  sits  down.  Mr.  Gould  walks  about.  Fast.  Up 
and  down.  He  is  shaking  his  head;  smiling;  sniffing  violently; 
and  tears  are  streaming  down  his  face.  Presently  he  goes  and 
shakes  hands  with  the  Colonel;  he  pats  his  wife's  arm  and 
presses  her  hand  in  his.  Eventually  he  comes  to  anchor  by  the 
fireplace.  There  has  been  a  ring  at  the  bell.] 
Mr.  Gould.    Well — let's — let's  hear  about  it. 

Colonel.  He  retook  a  section  of  a  trench  with  a  few  men.  They 
say  he  was  magnificent — according  to  them  he  must  have  accounted  for 
several  of  the  enemy  himself.  Fine  management! — apparently  he  was 
missing — 

Mrs.  Gould.    Missing? 

Colonel.    Yes — for  more  than  twelve  hours — got  back  at  night. 
[Jean  enters.    She  is  about  twenty-two,  and  the  eldest  of  a  large 
family.     Before  she  had  really  mastered   the  art  of^  walking 
herself,  she  was  presented  with  an  absurd  wriggly  little  baby 
brother,  whom  she  promptly  began  to  look  after;  and  among 
three  subsequent  arrivals  she  has  always  been  the  mother-child 
— loving,  patient,  and  efficient.    Even  now,  when  her  deep  eyes 
are  alight  for  her  lover,  there  is  over  her  always  a  beauty  of 
soft  gentleness.] 
Jean.     [A  daily  illustrated  paper  in  her  hand.]     Have  you  seen? — 
There's  a  picture  of  him. 

Mrs.  Gould.     [Rising.]    Jean,  my  dear. 

Jean.  [Going  straight  into  Mrs.  Gould's  arms.]  Oh,  Mrs.  Gould  I 
[The  arms  receive  her.] 

Mr.  Gould.  Well,  well!  Let's  have  a  look.  [But  his  wife  does 
not  take  her  arms  from  about  the  girl,  and  he  has  to  gain  possession 
of  the  paper  for  himself,  from  Jean's  hand;  he  bears  it  off,  and 
searches  to  find  the  picture.]  Where  is  it?  Eh?  I  can't  see  it.  Where 
are  my  spectacles?  I  had  'em  just  now — On  the  table,  expect—  [It  is 
the  Colonel  who  finds  them.]  Now — where  are  we?  Ah  I  Lieutenant 
Gould.  Yes.  I  shouldn't  have  known  him  from  Adam. 
Jean.    D'you  see  what  it's  headed? 

Mr.  Gould.  Yes.  [Which  is  sandwiched  between  a  gulp  and  a 
sniff.] 

Mrs.  Gould.    What  is  it  headed,  father? 

Mr.  Gould.  It's  headed —  [But  he  doesn't  trust  himself.]  Dammit, 
you  read  it  out,  Jean.  [He  gives  his  spectacles  an  entirely  unnecessary 
polishing.]  Don't  know  what's  the  matter  wih  these  glasses — can't  see 
a  dam'  thing! 

Jean.  [With  the  words  by  heart.]  It  says  "For  Distinguished 
Services — Another  Young  Hero." 

Mr.  Gould.  Young  scoundrel!  [He  hands  the  paper  to  his  wife.] 
There  it  is,  mother. 

Mrs.  Gould.    Here's  some  more  underneath.    It's  very  small  print. 


10  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

[She  reads.]  "Ridding  the  world  of  the  Hun.  Lieutenant  Gould  ac- 
counts for  six  of  his  country's  foes.  For  such  magnificent  work  this 
young  hero  is  to  be  awarded  the  medal  for  distinguished  service." 

[Mr.  Gould  is  looking  over  his  wife's  shoulder,  and  while  their 
eyes  feast  upon  the  paper  the  Colonel  shakes  hands  with 
Jean.] 

Colonel.    May  I  offer  my  best  congratulations? 

Jean.     Thanks. 

Colonel.    I  don't  know  which  is  to  be  envied  most — you  or  he. 

Mrs.  Gould.  [After  a  great  look  at  the  paper.]  Yes.  I  could  tell 
— and  he'll  be  standing  in  this  room  again — Eric,  do  you  know  what 
time  he'll  be  here? 

Colonel.  That's  one  of  the  things  I  came  round  about — I  hap- 
pened to  hear  what  train  his  lot's  coming  up  by.  If  we  go  down  to  the 
station  now,  we  ought  just  about  to  meet  it. 

Mrs.  Gould.     [Rising.]     Quickly — we  mustn't  be  late. 

Colonel.     No  violent  hurry.     Start  in  five  minutes  in  a  taxi. 

Mrs.  Gould.  Will  he  be  wearing — it — his  medal?  [Her  voice  is 
hushed  as  if  she  were  speaking  of  something  holy.] 

Colonel.    No,  he  won't.    He  may  not  even  know  about  it. 

Mr.  Gould.    You  mean  he  may  get  the  news  from  us? 

Colonel.    It's  quite  possible. 

Mrs.  Gould.    Father,  go  and  get  ready — Jean — 

[But  into  the  room  like  a  wind  comes  another  young  lady — Mar- 
gery Willis.  She  wears  a  coat  and  skirt  of  khaki,  a  leather 
belt  and  strap,  a  Colonial  slouch  hat — it  is  some  kind  of  uni- 
form. She  has  made  herself  as  much  like  the  military  as  pos- 
sible, and  at  once  takes  command.] 

Margery  Willis.  [She,  too,  has  the  illustrated  paper.]  I  say,  you 
people — Congrats — have  you  seen?  Oh,  yes,  you've  got  it — d'you  see 
what  it  says — six  of  'em.  By  Jove,  wish  I'd  seen  it — it  must  have  been 
GREAT.  I  say,  Mrs.  Gould,  you  must  be  tremendously  proud.  [She 
kisses  her;  to  the  Colonel:]  How  d' —  [But  she  remembers  just  in 
time,  and,  drawing  herself  up,  salutes.]  I  say,  congrats,  Mr.  Gould — 
and  Jean — I  say,  Jean,  it  must  be  rather  wonderful  for  you.  Fancy 
being  loved  by  a  hero. 

Jean.    Yes. 

Margery.  [Holding  out  her  hand.]  It's  awfully  difficult  to  say 
what  you  mean,  you  know,  but — well,  by  Jove,  congrats.  [Instead  of 
shaking  hands  she  kisses  Jean.]  When's  he  going  to  be  here?  We  all 
want  to  come  in  and  cheer. 

Mrs.  Gould.    We're  going  down  to  meet  him  now. 
Margery.     By  Jove  ! — wish  we  could  come — can't  spare  the  time, 
though — we  got  a  terrific  da}^     Making  munitions  all  the  morning — 
giving  a  concert — you  know,  Pierrot  show.     I'm  going  to  sing  "The 


BLACK     'ell  11 

Arms  of  the  Army" — hot  stuff,  I  can  tell  you — with  Jack  as  the  chorus ; 
he  does  look  an  ass  doing  it.  There'll  be  a  whole  heap  of  Tommies 
there,  and  this  evening  the  Rector's  making  up  a  party,  and  we're  all 
going  to  the  Royal  Opera  House  to  hear  St.  John  Bullock  on  "War — 
the  new  Religion."  He's  fine.  Dad  used  to  call  him  the  biggest 
scoundrel  before  the  war — but  it's  wonderful  how  it's  brought  all 
classes  and  people  together,  isn't  it?  The  old  Bish  is  in  the  chair — 
Well,  so  long — I  must  go.  They're  waiting  outside.  I  say,  Jean,  you 
should  come  along  and  munish — it's  terrific  sport  making  shells — wish 
I  could  be  at  the  station  to  cheer — we'll  all  look  in  some  time  to-day, 
though,  you  bet !     So  long — Six  of  'em.     [She  goes  out.] 

Mrs.  Gould.  Come  along,  father,  and  get  your  things  on — Eric, 
will  you  get  a  taxi  for  us? 

Colonel.     Certainly. 

[He  and  Mr.  Gould  go  out;  as  Mrs.  Gould  is  going  Jean's  voice 
stops  her.] 

Jean.    Mrs.  Gould. 

Mrs,  Gould.    Yes,  dear? 

Jean.    I  don't  think  I  shall  come  down  to  the  station. 

Mrs.  Gould.    Not  come? 

Jean.  No,  I'd  rather  not.  Somehow  I — I  don't  want  to  meet  him 
with  all  the  other  people  about.,  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  it.  Will 
you  tell  him  I'm  waiting  here  for  him — may  I?     I'd  rather. 

Mrs.  Gould.     Of  course  you  shall. 

Jean.  [With  a  quaint  little  twinkle.]  Don't  kiss  me.  I  should 
start  crying. 

Mrs.  Gould.    I  know — I'll  bring  him  straight  back  to  you. 

Jean.    Thank  you. 

[Mrs.  Gould  goes  out.     Jean  has  not  been  alone  for  a  moment 
when  Ethel  comes  in  to  clear  away  the  breakfast  things.] 

Ethel.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Jean — I  thought  you  was 
gone. 

Jean.    Come  in,  Ethel. 

Ethel.    Shall  I  be  in  your  way  if  I  clears.  Miss? 

Jean.     Not  a  bit.     [Ethel  begins  to  clear;  then  presently:] 

Ethel.    It's  fine  about  Mr.  Harold,  isn't  it? 

Jean.    Yes. 

Ethel.    Must  be  all  right  for  you — wish  it  was  my  Tom. 

Jean.     I  didn't  know  you  had  any  one  out  there,  Ethel. 

Ethel.    Near  twelve  months  'e's  been  out  there — my  Tom  'as. 

Jean.    Is  he  your — 

Ethel.  Yes.  My  young  man — near  twelve  months  I  ain't  seen  'm. 
[Here  thoughts  find  words  in  spasmodic  sentences  as  she  busies  her- 
self with   the  breakfast   things.]     Twelve  months   come  next  Friday 


12  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

week,  I  could  do  without  the  'ro  part  to  get  him  back  for  a  bit — just 
for  an  evening  out  with  'im — a  sweetheart,  two  brothers  an'  a  father 
at  it.  I've  given  my  bit  to  'em — seems  crool,  don't  it? — all  for  you- 
don't-know-what  like. 

Jean.  They're  fighting  for  you,  Ethel,  and  for  me,  and  for  their 
Qountry. 

Ethel.  [A  little  unresponsive  to  this — her  thoughts  are  traveling 
along  their  own  lines.]  Yes — anyow,  now  they  'ave  gam,  them  wot 
stays  be'ind  don't  'arf  make  me  wild — the  shirkers  don't — 'oldin' 
meetin's,  some  of  'em.  I'd  give  'em  shirkers — you  should  'ear  my 
brother  Bert — 'e's  a  corporal. 

Jean.  [With  a  big  enthusiasm  and  sincerity,  though  her  voice 
never  loses  its  gentleness.]  Yes — it's  a  great  war  for  freedom  and 
liberty. 

Ethel.  [Again  her  thoughts  have  pursued  their  own  way.]  Broke 
up  one  of  their  meetin's,  'e  did — 'e  and  the  boys. 

Jean.    Oh!    What  was  it  about? 

Ethel.  They  didn't  know  rightly  what  it  was  about — something 
they  didn't  like — anyow,  there  wasn't  much  more  of  it  after  they  got 
in.  Australians,  they  are — the  boys — Bert's  friends — fine  big  fellars — 
there  was  a  young  chap  on  the  platform  makin'  a  speech  on  somethink 
— they  pulled  'im  orf — and  'is  glasses  fell  orf  an'  'e  trod  on  'em  'isself — 
LARF ! !     I  thought  I  should  er  died. 

{She  disappears  with  the  loaded  tray.  Back  again,  she  folds  up 
the  table-cloth  and  puts  it  away  in  a  drawer.  From  where  she 
is  she  can  see  out  of  the  window.] 

Ethel.    There  they  go. 

Jean.  [Hurrying  to  the  window  and  waving  from  it.]  How  long 
d'you  think  they'll  be,  Ethel? 

Ethel.  Ought  to  be  back  in  the  'arf-hour — and  then  Mr.  Harold'll 
be  here — Coo !     If  it  were  my  Tom. 

[Jean  watches  her  as  she  stands  in  front  of  her,  picturing  to  her- 
self his  home-coming.     There  is  a   queer  little  smile   on   her 
lips,  a  tightening  in  her  throat,  and  tears  are  filling  her  eyes 
that  do  not  see  what  they  are  looking  at.    Her  voice  is  uncer- 
tain of  itself.] 
It'll  be  funny — 'im  coming  back  again — you  can't  seem  to  fancy  some'ow 
— it  don't  seem  as  if  it  'ud  ever  really  'appen — 'im  coming  back  again — 
near  twelve  months  it's  been  just  thinkin'  of  'im  all  the  time — all  the 
time  it  'as — and — Oh  !  you  know,  wantin'  'im. 

[The  little  smile  twists  itself  all  wrong;  the  tears  well  up,  and  her 
longing  finds  expression  as  best  it  may.] 
Oh,  I  do  wish  it  were  'im  coming. 

Jean.  [Touched  and  sympathetic  and  feeling  a  little  helpless.] 
Ethel,  so  do  I — I  wish  it  were  him  coming,  too. 


BLACK     'ell  13 

[Jean's  voice  recalls  the  girl  back  to  the  room  again.  She  shuts 
her  eyes  very  tight  to  squeeze  them  dry,  she  bites  her  lip  very 
hard  to  get  the  smile  back  into  shape — and  she  wins.] 

Ethel.    But  'e  ain't — and  that's  all  there  is  about  it. 

[She  goes  to   the   door.     Two   large   tears  have   overflowed  and 
tremble,  like  two  large  raindrops,  on  t^  brinks  of  her  cheeks — 
the  only  tokens  of  the  recent  storm.] 
Is  there  anything  you  want,  Miss  Jean? 

Jean.  No,  thank  you,  Ethel.  [Ethel  turns  to  go,  but  Jean  feels 
that  she  does  watn  to  try  and  say  something.]  Oh,  Ethel.  [Ethel 
faces  round  again — and  Jean  hesitates  for  words.]     I — 

Ethel.    Don't  say  anything  about  'im,  please,  Miss. 

Jean.     I  don't  want  anything,  thank  you. 

Ethel.    Thank  you,  Miss. 

[And  she  goes  out.  Jean  selects  a  book  and  sits  by  the  fireplace— 
her  back  to  the  door — half  reading,  half  dreaming.  After  a 
little  while  of  silence,  the  door  opens  quietly,  and  Harold,  in 
civilian  clothes,  is  standing  in  the  room.  The  girl  has  not 
heard  him  come  in,  and  realizing  that  if  he  spoke  he  would 
startle  her,  he  stands  there,  behind  her,  hesitating  and  uncer- 
tain.   At  last  he  speaks,  very  softly.] 

Harold.    Jeanie ! 

[Jean  looks  quickly  up,  but  does  not  turn  her  head.     She  thinks 
her  ears  are  playing  her  strange  tricks,  as  they  have  done  be- 
fore in  the  night  silences.    For  a  moment  she  listens,  and  then, 
sinking  her  head  between  her  hands,  covers  her  ears  as  if  she 
would  shut  out  the  sound.    Harold  waits  where  he  is.     Then, 
when  her^ears  are  free  again,  a  little  stronger.]     It's  all  right, 
Jeanie ;  it's  me.     [She  rises  and  faces  him,  too  utterly  surprised 
to  do  anything  for  the  moment,  but  stare  at  him.] 
Hullo !      [His   eyes   wander  vaguely   round   the   room;    his  voice,   as 
vaguely,  seems  to   echo   his  thoughts.]     They've  moved  the  piano— it 
used  to  be  over  there. 

Jean.  But  I  don't  understand — how  have  you  got  here — and  like 
that? 

Harold.  There  was  a  fuss  down  there  at  the  station— and  I  left 
them— I  oughtn't  to  have  done— and  came  up  up  a  taxi— where's  every- 
body?— where's  mother? 

Jean.    They've  gone  down  to  the  station  to  meet  you. 

Harold.  [Repeating  himself.]  There  was  a  fuss— I  came  up  in  a 
taxi — and  went  up  to  my  room — why  have  they  taken  the  big  picture 
of  me  down  from  over  my  bed? 

Jean.    It's  in  your  mother's  room. 

Harold.  Oh !  I  changed  my  things— I  didn't  want  you  to  see  me 
in  them — 


14  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

Jean.  Not  want  me  to  see  you  in  them !  Why,  Harold !  Harold, 
you  stupid — 

[She  advances  towards  him,  ready  to  move  close  into  his  arms  and 
take  him  back  to  her — if  he  had  opened  them  to  receive  her. 
But  he  does  not.    And  as,  closer  to  him  now,  she  looks  into  his 
eyes,  something  in  them  begins  to  frighten  her.] 
This  isn't  a  bit  like  I  expected — your  coming  home — not  a  bit. 

Harold.    Look  at  me.     [It  is  a  command.]    Look  straight  at  me. 
Jean.    Harold ! 
Harold.    You  are  like  her — 
Jean.     Harold ! 

Harold.     [With  an  indicating  movement  of  his  hand  across  his 

own  forehead.]    All  across  there  you  are — and  your  hair — the  wavy  bit, 

Jean.    Harold — dear — what  are  you  talking  about? 

Harold.     And  your  eyes  are  terribly  like —     [He  looks  suddenly 

over  his  shoulder,  and  then  apprehensively  round  the  room.]     Do  you 

think  people  haunt  you? 

[By  this  time  Jean,  realizing  that  he  is  almost  unconscious  of  her, 

feeling  that  there  is  something  between  them  through  which 

she  cannot  reach  him,  can  only  stand  watching  him,  hypnotized, 

as  it  were,  by  his  fearful  strangeness.] 

No;  of  course  they  don't.     Of  course  they  don't.     I  don't  believe  in 

ghosts.     There  isn't  anything  any  more  after  you've  been  killed — only, 

if  there  is,  would  they  go  on  haunting  you  for  the  rest  of  your  life — 

there  can't  be  anything  after  you're  dead — there  are  so  many  of  them — 

and  yet  [a  great  fear  comes  into  his  voice]  he  spoke  to  me  on  the  boat — 

I  heard  his  voice. 

Jean.    Whose  voice?     I  don't  understand. 

Harold.  He's  dead  now — and  he  had  a  locket-thing — and  she  was 
like  you ;  and  on  the  boat  at  night,  when  it  was  all  dark,  he  came  and 
asked  for  it — and  I  gave  it  to  him — and  he  took  it  away.  Of  course, 
it  may  have  just  fallen  into  the  sea — I  was  leaning  over — and  I 
stretched  out  my  hand  with  it — only  I  heard  his  voice,  just  as  if  yoii'd 
spoken  to  me — suppose  I  was  to  hear  it  again  now  [he  is  as  terrified 
as  a  child]  and  I've  given  him  back  his  locket — I  can't  do  anything 
more,  can  I? 

Jean.  [Quieting  him  as  she  might  one  of  her  young  brothers.] 
There — my  dear — there  isn't  anything  to  be  frightened  of — if  you'd 
only  tell  me — what  is  it  that's  between  us — I  don't  understand  in  the 
least  what  you're  talking  about.  I  want  to  help.  Won't  you  tell  me — 
quite  quietly? 

Harold.  It's  all  muddled — the  beginning — out  of  our  trench  into 
theirs — where  they  were — and  men  coming  at  you — their  faces  quite 
close — and  shooting  at  them — and  the  hellish  noise  and  the  shouting — 
and  our  men  with  bayonets — and  somebody  screamed — it  went  right 
into  him — and  then — him. 


BLACK     *ELL  15 

[He  pauses  as  if  trying  to  recall  the  details  to  his  mind.  Jean 
waits.  He  begins  again  a  low,  dull  monotone.] 
He  was  just  a  gray  thing  at  first  coming  at  me.  I  hadn't  got  a  shot 
left  and  I  hit  at  him,  with  something  in  my  hand — a  sort  of  knife — 
into  his  face— into  his  mouth — against  his  teeth — and  my  hand  came 
out  with  a  lot  of  blood  and  things — I  remember  thinking  how  I  used 
to  hate  going  to  the  dentist  when  I  was  a  kid.  I  remember  thinking 
that,  quite  distinctly — and  while  I  was  thinking  of  the  time  I  had  a 
tooth  out — this  big  one  at  the  back — we  got  clutched  up  together — then 
we  fell — I  was  right  on  top  of  him,  and  the  thing  I  had  in  my  hand — 
it  must  have  been  a  knife — it  went  right  into  his  stomach — right  in. 
I  fell  on  him — then  I  was  lying  on  top  of  him,  and  I  looked  at  him — 
quite  still  he  was.  I  looked  quite  a  long  time — I  looked  at  his  face — 
he  was  just  about  my  age — and  I  put  my  hand  over  the  part  that  was 
all  smashed,  and  I  thought  how  good-looking  he  was — hair  with  the 
tiniest  httle  curls,  you  know — then  I  raised  myself  up  and  took  the 
knife  out — it  had  gone  right  in  him,  and  then  all  sideways — and  I  tried 
to  undo  his  tunic,  but  it  was  all — Oh,  I  didn't  do  it!  You  see,  I'd 
fallen  on  him ;  it  wasn't  my  fault  eactly — and  then  he  began  to  cry  out 
— and  I  knew  it  must  be  hurting  him  simply  horribly — he  kept  on  cry- 
ing out— and  he  wouldn't  stop— Oh,  it  was  too  awful!  and  I  tried  to 
kill  him. 

[A  movement,  at  last,  from  Jean.] 
It  was  the  only  thing,  to  put  an  end  to  it— but  I  couldn't— till  I  put 
my  fingers  round  his  throat  and  pressed — and  I  pressed  and  I  pressed 
— he  couldn't  struggle  much — I  watched  the  life  die  out  of  his  eyes — 

[His  low  voice  drops  into  silence;  after  a  little  his  recollection  of 
it  again  becomes  audible.] 
like  something  doing  a  long  way  away  behind  a  glass — and  just  before 
it  went  out  altogether,  he  put  up  his  hand  to  his  neck — not  to  try  and 
take  my  fingers  away— but  his  fingers  undid  a  button — there  wasn't  any 
sight  left  in  his  eyes — and  the  locket  was  there — his  fingers  clenched 
round  it,  and  I  thought  it  was  all  over  and  let  go  with  my  hands — and 
suddenly,  quite  beautifully  and  low,  he  spoke  a  girl's  name — and  the 
pain  all  went  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  looked,  Hke  you  look  sometimes, 
loving  and  longing  and  hopeful.  I  opened  it  and  I  thought  I  was  look- 
ing at  you,  and  I  realized  it  was  his  you — and  he's  out  there  thrown 
in  somewhere  with  a  heap  of  others,  with  some  earth  scrambled  over 
them — and  she's  there  waiting — do  you  think  he  came  back  and  took  it 
away,  or  do  you  think  I  just  dropped  it  into  the  sea? 

Jean.  [Caressing  him  with  her  voice.]  My  dear,  my  dear,  it  isn't 
your  fault;  you  didn't  want  the  war; nobody  in  England  wanted  the 
war — we're  fighting  in  self-defense. 

Harold.  [Looking  quickly  up  at  her;  he  is  evidently  making  a 
great  effort ^  at  concentration — his  voice  is  more  certain  of  itself,  more 
argumentative.]  Look  here,  Jean— I've  been  thinking— I've  been  think- 
ing quite  a  lot — 

Ethel  comes  in,  white  and  dishevelled. 


16  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

Ethel.  Miss  Jean.  May  I  speak  to  you,  please  Miss.  [She  sees 
that  Jean  is  not  alone.]     Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon — I — 

Jean.     [Noticing  her  face.]     Ethel,  what  is  it? 

Ethel.     I  thought  you  were  alone. 

Jean.    Whatever  is  it,  Ethel?    What's  the  matter? 

Ethel.  I  come  to  you.  Miss.  I  just  seen  it  in  the  lists — 'e  won't 
never  come  'ome  to  me  now. 

Jean.    Tom  ? 

Ethel.    Killed,  it  said. 

Jean.     [Going  to  her.]     Oh,  my  dear. 

Ethel.  I  just  seen  it — just  this  minute — I  can't  seem  to  think — I 
shan't  never  see  'im  no  more — an'  I  shan't  never  marry  'im — an'  I 
shan't  never  love  'im  proper — an'  I  'ope  them  wot  killed  'im  is  dead 
themselves  by  now. 

Harold.  Don't  say  things  like  that,  Ethel — they've  all  got  homes 
of  their  own — and  lovers — 

Ethel.  Them!  'Uns!!  They're  not  worth  nothink — Oh,  I  wish 
I  was  a  man — you  done  your  bit  fine,  Mr.  Harold.  You've  killed  'em 
— the  devils — six  of  'em — 

Jean.     [Trying  to  keep  these  last  words  from  his  ears.]     Ethel! 

Ethel.  I'm  sorry.  Miss — I  come  to  you — but  I  thought  you  was 
alone. 

[She  turns  to  go.] 

Jean.    Don't  go. 

Ethel.  Yes,  I  want  to — up  to  my  room,  alone — ^you've  got  yours 
back,  and  I  shan't  never — I  wish  black  'Ell  to  them  wot  killed  'im,  and 
if  there's  any  justice  in  'Eaven,  God'll  give  it  to  'em. 

[She  breaks  down  utterly,  and  finds  her  way  from  the  room,  sob- 
bing terribly.] 

Jean.    How  dreadful — poor,  poor  Ethel. 

Harold.  That's  how  it  goes  on — there  are  people  over  there  curs- 
ing me  like  that.  [He  seems  to  lose  grip  of  the  present  again,  and  his 
thoughts  turn  inwards.]  H  only  I  knew  what  his  name  was,  and  where 
he  lived — and  where  she  lives — I  thought  I  might — I  might  go  over  and 
see  her — d'you  think  I  could — after  the  war?  I  could  tell  her  it  wasn't 
my  fault — you  see,  it  wasn't;  I  fell  on  him.  [Then,  quite  stiddenly:] 
How  did  she  know  about  it?  How  did  that  girl  know?  [Jean  has  no 
answer.]     Do  you  know  how  she  knew? 

Jean.     [Very  low.]     No — I  don't  know. 

Harold.  It's  between  him  and  me — something  I've  got  to  make  up 
for,  if  I  can — nobody  else  must  know  ever — only  just  you — I  had  to 
tell  some  one.  I  shan't  even  tell  mother  and  dad — you  won't  tell  them, 
will  you?     [Again  Jean  is  silent.]     You  won't? 

Jean.     [As  low  as  before.]     No. 


I 


BLACK     'ell  17 

Harold.  Only  just  you  and  I  know  and  him — but  she  knew — she 
said  something  about  six — what  did  she  mean?  Jean,  what  did  she 
mean?  [The  idea  flashes  on  him.]  It's  not  in  the  newspapers — not 
for  everybody  to  know — My  God!  I  couldn't  bear  it  if  it  was — I 
should  go  mad, 

Jean.    You  mustn't  say  things  hke  that — and  you  mustn't  worry. 

Harold.    Is  it  in  the  papers? 

Jean.     My  dear — why  should  it  be? 

Harold.     Is  it? 

Jean.    No. 

[The  Illustrated  Daily  Paper  has  been  lying  open  on  the  table; 
Jean  folds  it  up  and  removes  it  as  unobtrusively  as  she  can.] 

Harold.  If  it  had  been — I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done — 
I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done. 

[The  door  opens  and  Mr.  Gould  stands  on  the  threshold.  It  is  to 
be  noticed  that  he  is  carrying  the  illustrated  paper.  As  Jean 
turns  to  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  she  happens  to  hide 
Harold.] 

Mr.  Gould.  [Speaking  at  once.]  I  say,  Jean,  my  dear,  you  mustn't 
be   disappointed — there's  a  mystery — nothing  to  alarm  you.     We  met 

the  train,  but  he  hasn't  c [and  he  sees  Harold.    His  mouth  is  open 

to   complete  the  word,  and  it  just  stays  open.]     Why,  God  bless  my 
soul,  here  he  is.     [He  dashes  at  him.]     My  dear  old  chap! 

[He  grips  his  hand,  nearly  shakes  his  arm  off,  and  kisses  him. 
Colonel  Fane  has  appeared  in  the  doorway.] 
I  say,  Eric,  here  he  is.     God  knows  how  he  got  here;  but  here  he  is. 
Tell  his  mother.    No,  I  will. 

[He  returns  to  the  open  door — calling — evidently  far  too  excited 
to  know  what  he  is  doing.] 
Mother  ! — Mother  !     Where  are  you  ?     Mother  ! 

Mrs.  Gould'j  Voice.     [As  she  is  coming  downstairs.]    Yes,  dear? 

Mr.  Gould.  I've  got  a  little  surprise  for  you — come  along — a  little 
unbirthday  present. 

Mrs.  Gould.     [Appearing.]    What  is  it,  dear? 

Mr.  Gould.  [His  hand  outstretched  to  Harold.]  There — look 
what  I've  got  for  you — found  it  lying  about  when  I  came  in. 

Mrs.  Gould.    Boy! 

Harold.    Hullo,  mother! 

[She  takes  him  to  her  with  an  enormous  kiss.] 

Mr.  Gould.  What  /  want  to  know  is — what's  he  doing  here?  Did 
he  fly  in  through  the  window,  Jean? 

Jean.    He  came  up  by  himself  in  a  taxi. 

Mr.  Gould.  Oh !  [He  eyes  him  proudly,  still  in  his  mother's  em- 
brace.] Got  into  his  own  things,  too.  Well,  you've  had  the  first  look 
at  him.    You've  told  him  the  news? 


18  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

Jean.    No. 

Mr.  Gould.    You  haven't? 
Jean.    No. 

Mr,  Gould.     [Waving  the  paper.]    You  haven't  shown  him  this? 
Jean.    No. 

Mr.  Gould.  [Thrusting  the  paper  into  her  hands.]  Well,  then, 
show  it  to  him  now. 

Jean.    Oh,  no,  Mr.  Gould — ^please.  »_ 

Mr.  Gould.  Yes,  my  dear.  You're  the  right  person  to  do  It.  I 
don't  say  I  don't  envy  you. 

Harold.     [Whose  attention  has  been  caught.]     What  is  it? 

Mr.  Gould.    Jean's  got  something  in  the  paper  to  show  you. 

[He  urges  the  unwilling  girl  so  that  she  stands  right  before 
Harold.] 

Jean.     [Helpless.]    Mr.  Gould! 

Harold.     [Quickly.]     Something  about  me? 

Mr.  Gould.    Yes. 

Harold.    Something  in  the  paper  about  me? 

Mr.  Gould.    Yes — Come  along,  Jean. 

Jean.    I'd  rather  not,  really;  not  now. 

Mr.  Gould.    Eh? 

Harold.  Show  it  to  me.  [She  puts  the  paper  into  his  hands.  He 
scans  the  sheet.]     I  don't  see  anything — what  is  it?    Where? 

Mr.  Gould.  You've  given  him  the  wrong  side  of  it  now.  'Pon 
my  word,  I  believe  you're  frightened  it'll  turn  his  head !  [Harold 
reverses  the  paper.]  The  top  picture  on  the  left — and,  by  Jove !  old 
chap,  we're  proud  of  you — we  are — we're  proud — eh? 

[Harold  has  looked  up,  and  the  sentence  ends  with  a  little  noise 
in  his  throat.] 

Harold.  [Almost  to  himself.]  No — it  isn't  true — it  isn't  true. 
[He  stares  at  the  little  group;  and,  hypnotized  as  Jean  was,  they  wait 
in  silence.  He  is  evidently  striving  again  with  the  past.]  There  were 
six  in  it  when  I  started,  and  it  was  empty  when  he  came — if  I  could 
remember —  Oh,  my  Christ !  if  it  is  true — and  they  want  to  reward 
me  for  it.  [He  talks  horribly  in  the  air.]  I  won't  take  it — I  won't 
touch  it — you  know  I  won't,  don't  you?  [He  sinks  into  a  chair,  cover- 
ing his  face  with  his  hands.]     Oh,  my  Christ! 

Mr.  Gould.    Hullo! 

Mrs.  Gould.    What  is  it? 

Jean.  He's  been  telling  me — it  isn't  a  bit  like  we  expected — he's 
been  telling  me  about  the  man  he  killed. 

Colonel.  It's  all  right,  people ;  they're  often  like  that  at  first — 
shock,  you  know — nerves — he'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two. 


BLACK     'ell  19 

[Harold  has  not  raised  his  head  from  his  hands,  and  Mr.  Gould, 
going  to  hint,  pats  him  gently  and  kindly  on  the  shoulder.] 

Mr.  Gould.  There,  there,  there,  my  dear  old  chap ;  we  understand 
— of  course  we  do — one  or  two  good  breakfasts  at  home,  a  few  nights 
in  your  own  comfortable  bed,  and  a  dinner  with  me  at  the  Club,  eh? 
You'll  be  as  right  as  rain.  [No  answer.]  Come  along,  old  man,  pull 
yourself  together.  [No  answer.]  It  sounds  strange,  here  in  my  own 
house,  telling  the  soldier  who's  been  facing  death  for  us  for  nearly 
a  year  to  "pull  himself  together." 

Harold.  [Suddenly  looking  up.]  It  isn't  a  soldier's  job  to  get 
killed — it's  his  job  to  kill. 

Mr.  Gould.     [Momentarily  nonplussed.]     Yes — but — 

Harold.  You  know,  it  isn't  them  so  much — or  even  him — it's  her, 
waiting  there — coming  back  to  Jean  makes  you  realize. 

Mr.  Gould.  Oh,  come,  come,  come !  You've  killed  your  men,  we 
know ;  but  it  was  in  fair  fight. 

Harold.    Fair  fight! 

Mr.  Gould.  Well,  if  it  wasn't  fair  fight,  it  wasn't  you  that  was 
fighting  foul — we  know  that.    I  shouldn't  let  myself  be  weak. 

Harold.  Fair  fight!  If  you  only  knew  what  it  means — all  of  it — 
all  fighting's  foul ! 

Mr.  Gould.  Oh,  come — that's  rather  a  queer  view.  [He  tries  a 
little  joviality.]  We  get  quite  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing  from  the 
cranks  at  home.  We  can't  do  with  any  sentimentalism,  you  know,  from 
the  men  who  are  doing  the  work. 

Harold.    Fair  fight ! 

[He  is  evidently  on  the  verge  of  breaking  down  completely.  The 
Colonel,  who  is  not  a  man  of  words,  has  taken  up  his  position 
with  his  back  to  the  fireplace;  Mrs.  Gould  and  Jean  can  only 
watch  and  listen.  When  Mr.  Gould  speaks  again,  he  is  en- 
tirely serious.] 

Mr.  Gould.  Come,  old  man,  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me  quietly — 
are  you  listening?  [Harold  nods  assent.]  Look  here — if  a  criminal 
was  to  come  into  this  room  and  attack  me,  or  your  mother,  or  Jean, 
you'd  be  the  first  to  protect  us — Eh?  Of  course  you  would.  Well, 
that's  what  you've  been  doing — and  you  wouldn't  be  so  much  upset  if 
you  happened  to  damage  the  blackguard  in  the  process — of  course  you 
wouldn't — my  dear  old  chap,  nobody  wanted  this  war — but  if  you're 
attacked  you've  got  to  defend  yourself.  That's  all  it  is — it's  perfectly 
simple — but,  by  Jove !  we  are  proud  of  you,  and  we  are  thankful  to 
you  for  the  way  you've  been  protecting  your  home,  and  your  country, 
and  all  that  she  stands  for. 

Harold.  D'you  know  when  I  heard  all  that  last? — all  of  it  almost 
— in  their  trenches.  [He  has  risen  in  a  passionate,  nervous  excitement.] 
I  was  lying  there  all  night,  quite  close,  and  I  heard  them  talking,  just 
like  our  chaps  do  sometimes — laughing  and  joking  about  all  the  things 
they're  going  through,  and  knowing  they've  got  to  climb  out  in  the 


2iy  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

morning  and  don't  stand  a  dog's  chance  of  being  alive — not  death  itself 
simply,  but  bits  of  you  smashed  up,  and  you  lie  and  roll  about ;  you  can 
hear  them  crying  out  all  over  the  place — and  the  night  before  they 
wait — and  make  fun — and  they  know  all  the  time — it's  just  in  the 
early  morning,  when  it  gets  a  bit  colder  and  the  light  begins  to  come 
in  the  sl<y,  waiting — my  God !  they  are  fine,  all  of  'em — d'you  think 
they'd  do  that  to  each  other,  month  after  month,  if  they  didn't  both 
think  they  were  right  and  the  others  wrong,  and  they  were  protecting 
something?     It's  all  a  bloody  muddle! 

Mr.  Gould.     Harold  ! ! 

Harold.  It  is!!  If  you'd  heard  them.  There  was  a  man  there — 
a  Socialist  or  something,  I  suppose — talking  against  the  war — and  the 
way  they  all  sat  on  him.  They  got  furious  with  him.  They  talked 
just  like  you — how  they  were  afraid  of  Russia  and  France  and  Eng- 
land all  against  them,  and  how  nobody  wanted  the  war ;  and  how,  now 
it  had  come,  they  must  all  protect  their  wives  and  their  children,  and 
their  homes  and  their  country — and  they  told  each  other  stories  to 
prove  what  brutes  we  were — stories  of  what  the  Russians  had  done — 
filthy  things — and  the  French  foreign  troops — I  don't  know  if  they 
were  true,  but  they  were  just  the  same  as  we  say  about  them.  [The 
Colonel  and  Mr.  Gould  begin  to  get  restive.  They  would  interrupt, 
but  in  his  growing  passion  he  gives  them  no  opportunity.]  Who  makes 
everybody  believe  it's  somebody  else's  fault?  They  believe  it — yoti  be- 
lieve it.  Jean  said  it  to  me.  There  were  two  men  in  our  company 
from  the  dirty  little  street  out  at  the  back  there — what  have  I  ever 
done  for  them  before  the  war? 

Mr.  Gould.  [Getting  a  word  in.]  Really!  That's  got  nothing  to 
do  with  it — you're  only  worrying  yourself. 

Harold.  [Turning  on  him.]  It  has  got  something  to  do  with  it. 
I  want  Jean  to  understand,  and  mother,  and  you,  and  all  decent  people. 
[He  tries  to  put  into  words  an  idea  he  has  been  worrying  at.]  I  mean, 
what  have  you,  or  any  one  in  this  whole  street  of  great  big  hgyses,  ever 
really  done  about  the  beastly  little  streets  just  behind"  at  our  back- 
doors— a  whole  wilderness^  miles  and  miles  of  'em — except  pretend 
they  aren't  there?  And  it's  the  same  in  other  countries.  It's  their  job 
to  join  tog;ether  and  get  a  more  decenJL_shar£_al^hfe,  instead  of  being 
born  and  living  and  dying  in  ugliness — only  we  put  expensive  weapons 
into  their  hands,  and  tell  them  to  go  and  kill  one  another.  And  they 
do.  That's  the  horrible  part.  They  do.  We  put  'em  in  uniforms,  and 
yell  "Form  fours !  as  you  were !"  At  'em,  till  they'll  do  anything. 
They're  tremendously  brave — they're  magnificent.  I  know,  I've  seen 
'em — but  the  waste!  [The  Colonel  makes  a  short  advance  from  his 
position  on  the  hearthrug,  clears  his  throat,  and  is,  unfortunately,  at 
once  overwhelmed.]  After  all,  what's  it  matter  who  was  to  blame  in 
the  beginning !  It's  happened.  And  all  the  young  men  in  the  world, 
and  the  workpeople  who  didn't  have  anything  to  do  with  starting  ft — 
and  all  think  they're  right — are  tearing  one  another  to  pieces  in  scream- 
ing agony.  Vlt  ought  to  be  stopped — aren't  there  enough  sane  people  in 
the  world  to  prevent  it  ever  happening  again  ?1  Now  they've  seen  what 


BLACK     'ell  21 

it's  like.  If  only  they'd  find  a  way  of  stoppitig  it  IjrD'you  know  Wliiit 
I  thought  the  other  day? — If  we  could  get  some  oi  the  statesmen,  and 
the  newspaper  men,  and  the  parsons,  and  the  clever  writers  in  all  the 
countries  who  keep  it  going — put  them  in  a  room — with  knives — sharp 
knives — and  let  them  hurt  one  another — hurt  one  another  horribly — 
stick  them  in,  and  scream  with  pain — or,  with  a  few  bombs — and  their 
legs  and  arms  and  hands  and  feet  just  torn  off — great  gashing  holes 
in  them.  My  God,  they'd  want  to  stop  soon  enough — they'd  "start 
negotiations"  all  right — only  now  they  just  sit  at  home,  the  old  men, 
and  set  us  at  each  otherJ 

Mr.  Gould.     [Feeling  he  is  being  implicated.]     This  is  monstrous! 

Harold.  [The  anger  in  his  father's  tone  rousing  its  answer  in  his.] 
You  sent  me  out  there,  and  I've  done  the  life  out  of  a  man  my  own 
age.  He  looked  a  ripping  good  sort,  and  I  might  have  liked  him,  and 
you  want  to  reward  me  for  it — and  if  he'd  have  killed  me — he  might 
just  as  well,  only  I  fell  on  him — you  and  Jean  and  all  of  you'd  have 
been  miserable — and  they'd  have  rewarded  him — it's  all  so  dam'  silly. 

Colonel.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  lie  down  for  a  bit — I 
must  get  back  to  the  War  Office. 

Harold.  [Going  straight  on.]  Dam'  silly.  I  saw  as  I  came  up 
from  the  station,  "No  Peace  Piffle"  on  the  'buses — and  a  whole  lot  of 
men  learning  to  prod  sacks  with  bayonets — and  they  were  laughing — 
God  in  Heaven,  I  used  to  laugh. 

Margery  Willis  bursts  in. 

Margery.  Has  he  come?  [She  sees  him.]  There  he  is!  Three 
cheers  for  Lieutenant  Gould,  D.  S.  O.  [She  calls  out  of  the  door:]  I 
say,  you  people,  he's  here.  Come  along  up  and  cheer,  I'll  bring  'em 
in.  [She  disappears  calling :]  Jack,  Audrey,  Daddy — he's  here  !  Come 
on  in! 

Colonel.  [Feeling  that  these  things  should  not  be  heard  outside.] 
I  don't  think  I  should  say  any  more  now,  if  I  were  you;  at  least — 
don't.    You  mustn't  say  anything  more  now.    You  must  be  quiet. 

Harold.  It's  no  use  ordering  me  about,  because  I've  done  with  it. 
Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  You  all  think  I'm  mad — looking  at  me  like  that. 
[He  has  completely  lost  control  of  himself;  his  words  rush  out  in  an 
ever-growing  crescendo.]  But  there  are  millions  doing  it — millions. 
The  young  ones  doing  it,  and  the  old  ones  feeling  noble  about  it.  Yes, 
Dad  feels  noble  because  I've  killed  somebody.  I  saw  him  feeling  noble 
— and  you  all  look  at  me,  because  I  tell  you  it's  all  filthy — foul  language 
and  foul  thinking — and  stinking  bits  of  bodies  all  about — millions  at  it 
— it's  not  me  that's  mad — it's  the  whole  world  that's  mad.  I've  done 
with  it !  I've  done  with  it !  That  man  in  the  trenches — he'd  had 
enough.  He  said  he  was  going  to  refuse  to  kill  any  more,  and  they 
called  him  a  traitor  and  pro-English,  and  they've  probably  shot  him  by 
now.  Well,  you  can  shoot  me,  because  I'm  not  going  back.  I'm  going 
to  stop  at  home  and  say  it's  all  mad.     I'm  going  to  keep  on  saying  it — 


22  PLAYS  FOR  THE  MODERN  THEATRE 

somebody's  got  to  stop  some  time— somebody's  got- to  get  sane  again— 
and  I  won't  go  back— I  won't,  I  won't— I  won't ! 

Margery.  [In  the  doorway,  cheering  wildly.]  Hurray!  Hurray! 
[There  are  sounds  and  voices  in  the  passage:  "Where  is  hef"  "He's 
in  the  dining-room" — "Come  along  in" — "Three  cheers  for  Harold."] 
Hip,  Hip,  Hurray  !    Hip,  Hip,  Hurray  !    Hip,  Hip,  Hurray  ! 

[But  as  he  stands  there,  white,  with  clenched  fists,  and  still,  the 

Curtain  comes  quickly  down  and  hides  him.] 

S 


The  Little  Theatre 

Some  Notes  and  Suggestions  for 
Those  Interested  in  the  Litde 
Theatre  with  an  Exhaustive 
BibHography   of  Short   Plays. 

By  FRANK  SHAY 


This  book,  originally  intended  as  a  bibliography  of 
short  plays  grew  in  the  making.  Certain  explana- 
tory notes  grew  into  chapters.  Other  chapters  were 
added  to  give  the  work  completeness.  The  chap- 
ters are:  Your  Little  Theatre,  Financing  the  Little 
Theatre,  Subscriptions,  Play  Selection,  Producing, 
Cast  and  Scenery,  Costumes  and  Make-up. 


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